'Scuse me, [Ryder mumbles, turning herself sideways so she can skirt around the pair shuffling unevenly together like a couple of bros out drinking too long into the night. She felt more than a little silly for trying to stick to the sidewalk, but it wasn't like she had much of a choice when the street was clogged up with cars that had clearly funneled people into their demise long ago. A few undead still moved through what space they could, but after scanning the condition of the vehicles, Ryder determines that most of them have crawled their way either over or under. Scrapes of black, rotten blood were all over the place. Torn clothes and unidentifiable lumps were present at a glance, too. Grimly, she reminds herself that she's seen worse much closer, exhales, and hurries along.
Anyone else in her shoes would have found themselves ripped apart in seconds, blood drowning out screams. The undead she passes so cavalierly don't so much as grunt in acknowledgement.] Ye-up. Feels just like I'm back on fucking campus. See ya, fellas.
[Of course, if it was actually like the good old days, Ryder wouldn't have been able to speak at all. Back then, she'd done everything she could to avoid the attention of her peers, head ducked low and textbooks clung to her chest. It's probably a sign that she's a horrible person that she feels so much more comfortable now that everyone around her is dead. The times she does come across survivors, she still tends to keep her distance -- for her own sake, mostly. People weren't just dangerous, they were annoying, gross, needy, hateful... It was better not to interfere.
Sometimes she'd hear the gunshots and shouting later and wonder if there was anything she could have done. Most of the time she'd hunker down for what she believed was around an hour, then head over to where the disturbance was to pick through whatever scraps were left. Whether they'd escaped or turned, Ryder hadn't found a living person after one of these incidents yet. A gun and ammo, though... Sometimes tools. Food, of course, but she usually wound up leaving it with the backpacks so that someone else that couldn't as easily wander into the dangerous, crowded spaces could pick it up and live another day. As long as they were away from her, that was fine. In the end, she'd still find their body to scavenge.]
Wish I knew a poem about vultures. I mean, there's that one, but it doesn't really fit. Too noble for me... I guess I've got 'Writers are sort of like vultures, but with fewer ethics.' Can't fucking say she was wrong, whoever she was, huh? Don't think this shit was exactly what she meant... God, was it Libby? No, fuck, Libba Bray. That was it. I think.
[Lately, though, things had been quiet. Maybe that's why it's such a shock when, while stepping through the shattered window without a care for how it scraped at her skin, adding bright, fresh red to the crusty smears of inky black, Ryder finds herself confronted by a rumbling growl that didn't match what she took as background noise, now. She stares, dumbfounded, at the rail-thin dog standing over a messy pile that must be hiding something it's decided to try its luck at eating. Her words are more of a tight exhale than a whisper.]
Holy fuck.
[A dog. A real dog. It was probably cute once upon a time, and a fantasy plays through her head where she's able to close the gap between them, share the resources she can to earn its trust and bolster its health, then walk side by side with a furry companion. They'd curl together at night, and on the days where the clumsily crafted statue that she strived to be broke down, it would lick her tears away.
Yeah, right. No fucking way that's happening. To her, this scraggly mutt she wants to ruffle the ears of is more dangerous than the undead. Fuck. She doesn't want to hurt it...but the glint of its teeth, it's glare, and the way its growl rattled through its whole body was screaming threat. Can she really justify surviving this long into the apocalypse, then letting a dog tear her arm off?
Okay. Okay, fuck. Fuck, she's frozen in place. The dog takes a step, overgrown nails clicking against the floor, and Ryder has to suppress a strangled squeal. Well, if she screamed, she supposed that the zombies would take care of the problem for her, drawn by her voice but treating her as if she wasn't there... Awful. No, she can't do that.
...Even though it means that they're both stuck where they are, raggedy creature vs raggedy creature, until one of them finally breaks. Hell, maybe she'll die and someone else will finally stumble on her stash, left behind for now, and she won't be the only vulture anymore. What a happy thought while she's over here forgetting how to breathe.]
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Anyone else in her shoes would have found themselves ripped apart in seconds, blood drowning out screams. The undead she passes so cavalierly don't so much as grunt in acknowledgement.] Ye-up. Feels just like I'm back on fucking campus. See ya, fellas.
[Of course, if it was actually like the good old days, Ryder wouldn't have been able to speak at all. Back then, she'd done everything she could to avoid the attention of her peers, head ducked low and textbooks clung to her chest. It's probably a sign that she's a horrible person that she feels so much more comfortable now that everyone around her is dead. The times she does come across survivors, she still tends to keep her distance -- for her own sake, mostly. People weren't just dangerous, they were annoying, gross, needy, hateful... It was better not to interfere.
Sometimes she'd hear the gunshots and shouting later and wonder if there was anything she could have done. Most of the time she'd hunker down for what she believed was around an hour, then head over to where the disturbance was to pick through whatever scraps were left. Whether they'd escaped or turned, Ryder hadn't found a living person after one of these incidents yet. A gun and ammo, though... Sometimes tools. Food, of course, but she usually wound up leaving it with the backpacks so that someone else that couldn't as easily wander into the dangerous, crowded spaces could pick it up and live another day. As long as they were away from her, that was fine. In the end, she'd still find their body to scavenge.]
Wish I knew a poem about vultures. I mean, there's that one, but it doesn't really fit. Too noble for me... I guess I've got 'Writers are sort of like vultures, but with fewer ethics.' Can't fucking say she was wrong, whoever she was, huh? Don't think this shit was exactly what she meant... God, was it Libby? No, fuck, Libba Bray. That was it. I think.
[Lately, though, things had been quiet. Maybe that's why it's such a shock when, while stepping through the shattered window without a care for how it scraped at her skin, adding bright, fresh red to the crusty smears of inky black, Ryder finds herself confronted by a rumbling growl that didn't match what she took as background noise, now. She stares, dumbfounded, at the rail-thin dog standing over a messy pile that must be hiding something it's decided to try its luck at eating. Her words are more of a tight exhale than a whisper.]
Holy fuck.
[A dog. A real dog. It was probably cute once upon a time, and a fantasy plays through her head where she's able to close the gap between them, share the resources she can to earn its trust and bolster its health, then walk side by side with a furry companion. They'd curl together at night, and on the days where the clumsily crafted statue that she strived to be broke down, it would lick her tears away.
Yeah, right. No fucking way that's happening. To her, this scraggly mutt she wants to ruffle the ears of is more dangerous than the undead. Fuck. She doesn't want to hurt it...but the glint of its teeth, it's glare, and the way its growl rattled through its whole body was screaming threat. Can she really justify surviving this long into the apocalypse, then letting a dog tear her arm off?
Okay. Okay, fuck. Fuck, she's frozen in place. The dog takes a step, overgrown nails clicking against the floor, and Ryder has to suppress a strangled squeal. Well, if she screamed, she supposed that the zombies would take care of the problem for her, drawn by her voice but treating her as if she wasn't there... Awful. No, she can't do that.
...Even though it means that they're both stuck where they are, raggedy creature vs raggedy creature, until one of them finally breaks. Hell, maybe she'll die and someone else will finally stumble on her stash, left behind for now, and she won't be the only vulture anymore. What a happy thought while she's over here forgetting how to breathe.]